it's a long way down
by alaskalane
Summary: Reacquainting after years apart: Santana and Rachel coincidentally meet each other after six years apart, on a rooftop, in the middle of the night.


Santana and Rachel coincidentally meet each other after six years apart, on a rooftop, in the middle of the night.

**trigger warning, sort of: suicide ideation.**

Santana liked how quiet it was, up there. Well, it wasn't quiet: she could still hear the sirens and horns and the thrum of the city below her, but she liked how distant she was from the noise, like it was existing in a whole other world to hers. It's the distance she feels, washing over her like a cool wave of calmness as she gazes unblinkingly ahead.

She shifted her body so she was positioned with her legs dangling over the side, her feet appearing like two huge islands on the busy street beneath her, and then sighed. About now was when the guardian angel's supposed to appear in front of her; about now is supposed to be when she's suddenly struck with some clear notion of the _beauty_ of the world; about now is when she's supposed to realise how much there's still left out there, for her.

There's nothing. Her heart is beating calmly, her hands steady and her mind is somewhat blank, and it seems as if no ethereal spirit is going to bother sitting in front of her and telling her no. Good, she thinks. I wouldn't bother, either.

She considers this for a second, and stares at the buildings and the emptiness and the bright lights and the darkness stretching out in front of her, and draws in a deep breath, but stops.

Maybe one more cigarette. She imagines that if she were in a position to miss anything after she had left, it would be smoking. And whiskey. Wherever she ends up going, she decides, it would be a great shame if cigarettes and whiskey were not there, too. She offers a concession to these two elixirs, and throws one cigarette to the ground below her, pouring a little whiskey away, too. Like a sort of offering, of thanks, she guesses.

She takes a small sip of whiskey herself, expecting it to warm her numbed body, and lights up her cigarette. Closing her eyes, she savours the smoke and sways a little from side to side with the steady beating of the city she sits above, feeling so much and so little at the same time that she isn't even sure if she's happy or sad. But she does feel that sense of belonging, like knew she'd end up here, and that's why she doesn't mind: she's always believed in fate, and in karma, and in retribution.

Suddenly, startled, she sits up straight and opens her eyes, the sound of sharp footsteps coming from somewhere to her left.

Hello? she says into the night, lamenting her action almost immediately when a small woman with dark hair turned around and said warily back, Hello?

The woman sounds heartbreakingly young and she's standing fairly close to the edge, but her body is facing away from the night as she looks at Santana further down the length of the roof. Her arms and legs are bare. She must be freezing; Santana huddles in her coat, feeling bad because she's interrupted this woman's purposeful stride in to her future. Who on earth was she to have any influence on anyone else's life?

Hi, she replies, but only because she has to. Do you want some whiskey? she asks, reasoning with herself that if she were to be up here with no drink and no jacket, she would like to be offered some by a kind stranger, too.

No thank you, says the Woman. I can't drink, but thank you very much for the offer. What's your name?

Santana frowns. She recognises the voice from somewhere, but can't even begin to think where. Probably one of the women from the firm. She imagines a lot of them have been sat up here, metaphorically, or perhaps literally; life is hard, and draining, and motivation is something that eludes them time and time again. The Woman could be an old girlfriend, perhaps, or fuck buddy. Maybe it's a girl from her first college. Or even an old roommate, or best friend, Santana scoffs to herself. It's not like she was ever very good at keeping hold of people, or staying in the same place for very long.

Anyway, she doesn't want to tell the Woman her name. She resents her loneliness being disturbed and fantasises briefly about slipping, sliding, falling -

But instead, she says: well, I don't think it really matters. What's yours?

I don't think it matters either, the Woman says. How old are you? she asks. Her voice quavers.

I'm twenty six, Santana says flatly, What about you?

I'm twenty six, too. Hey, do you have a spare cigarette? The Woman hasn't taken a step away from the edge, but she's shifting anxiously from foot to foot. Santana stares.

She considers her answer. Usually, she would say no, but there's at least ten left and it's not like she'll need them. She briefly wonders why she bought twenty in the first place, and then says, Yeah, sure. She pulls one out and there's an awkward pause as neither of them seem very willing to move.

Sorry, the Woman says. I just don't feel like I can move yet.

Santana shrugs. It's okay, she says back, I'll just throw the packet.

Are you sure?

Yeah.

Thank you.

Santana throws the packet - she has to stop herself from telling the Woman to be careful - and the Woman catches it, pulls one out with trembling hands, clumsily lights it and exhales gratefully.

Ah, she murmurs, That's nice. I haven't smoked in so long.

There's no time but the present, Santana jokes, and the Woman chuckles sadly.

No day but today, the Woman replies, and Santana smiles too. Her lips feel wrong to be curling up, but she can't help it.

Would you mind throwing the pack back? she asks, wondering why she's being so polite.

Oh, of course. Sorry, the Woman mumbles. I didn't think you'd want another. How long have you been sitting there?

Not long, Santana lies, Maybe five minutes, or so.

Oh, the Woman says again, I must've missed you. I've been standing in the stairwell for about an hour. It all seems so much realer when you're up here, doesn't it? She's talking a little faster now, with more confidence.

Yeah, says Santana. I've been up here since midnight, she admits, feeling a little better.

What's it like with your feet hanging over the edge? the Woman asks. I'm kind of afraid of heights.

And you couldn't think of another way to kill yourself? Santana says brusquely, regretting it instantly, but luckily, the Woman laughs.

I suppose you're right, she says, shaking her head. Her long hair billows in the light wind.

It's pretty cool over here, Santana says. It's like…You know those photos where it looks like people are holding the moon or the sun in their hands?

Yeah...

Well, it's like a perspective thing. My hand is as big as the whole of Brooklyn, Santana says, smiling to herself. I could pick up the Statue of Liberty and throw it all the way to Ohio, from up here.

The Woman swallowed, and says quietly: Would you mind if I came and sat with you? Just for a second. I mean, I'm sure we both have business to attend to, so...

Okay, says Santana. What does she have to lose? And anyway, it had been a couple of days since she spoke to anyone, let alone sat near them, so it would make it a lot less pathetic if she fell with the words of a fellow human being ringing in her ears. Whatever, she thinks.

The Woman takes baby steps over to where Santana is sitting, taking noticeable and improbable caution in not stepping over the ledge, and says Thank you.

Santana doesn't look up when she bumps gently against her and they both sit silently and look over New York City.

You're right, says the Woman, It is nice.

Without thinking, she covers Santana's hand with her own, craving the touch and warmth of another person. They feel inexplicably attached, joined by a sad and everlasting invisible bond. Santana doesn't pull away.

Instead, she says, Together?

Her heart beats a little faster. She feels the Woman's whole body shake and involuntarily, hers does too.

And the Woman agrees, Together.

Santana doesn't feel ready, but she's not really expecting to. The wind picks up, sharp and biting against her skin, and a plume of steam rises up from the pavement below them. She thinks to herself, if I wasn't so fucking depressed I would've taken that as a sign.

It's a long way down, she thinks. She wonders what it's going to feel like.

They both lean forward a little, and then they finally look up, stare at one another's faces, look at whom they are sharing this definitive moment with; and both pairs of eyes widen.

_Santana?_

_Rachel?_

What are you _doing _here?

What are _you _doing here?


End file.
